


The Unwritten Now

by Ragazzo



Series: The Unwritten Now [1]
Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazzo/pseuds/Ragazzo
Summary: My intention is for this to be an exploration of Tarkir from after where WOTC left the plane at the end of Dragons of tarkir. It will focus mostly on interactions between Narset and Sarkhan. When the spotlight is not on Sarkhan and Narset, it will focus on the dragonlords, and those who oppose them (Surrak, anafenza, sidisi, etc) as well as supporting characters around those figures. Although I'm not a hundred percent decided when this fic happens in relation to  War of the Spark, the first chapter at least occurs prior to War of the Spark.





	1. Freedom is A Mouthful of Fangs

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks have passed since Sarkhan's return to the present of Tarkir after rescuing Ugin. In that time, he has re-familiarized himself with his home plane's current state with the aid of Narset. Similarly, Sarkhan aids Narset in understanding the true history of Tarkir. Both have met with Ugin, who has since departed Tarkir for his own purposes. The two human planes-walkers have spent most of these few weeks together sharing information at a camp within the Crucible of the Spirit Dragon. Both Narset and Sarkhan have since left the Crucible and journeyed to the barren, abandoned, and scorched area that was once Qadat, the Fire Rim-where Narset and Sarkhan have sought to invite all five dragonlords to convene. It's here that the story begins.

"My freedom was once an ill-fitting fang in my mouth. It stuck out uselessly, misshapen and stained, splitting my lip open and carving strips from inside my cheek whenever I sought to speak or feast. Fool that I was, I believed looking outwards to those with bright, sharp fangs and gleaming scales was my path. That in emulating another's might, I would attain my own wholeness, my own glory. Fool that I remained, I persisted, intervened in the fabric of many worlds on the behalf of an unworthy master-for there are no worthy masters." 

Taking a breath as he feels a touch on his arm, he sweeps his molten gaze around him, refocusing his mind on the present. 

"I speak of the past-my past, such as it remains. This is the unwritten now and it is in the unwritten now that we make our destinies. Freedom is not a single fang in a mouth. Freedom is not watching the strong fly over you. Freedom is growing your own mouth of fangs, your own wings."

The man with a fire filled gaze and half-scale covered torso turns away from the woman in Ojutai garb standing serene and poised beside him. Looking along edges of the blasted out, scorched crater that they stand within, he takes in the five impatiently gleaming immense pairs of eyes of those watching and waiting. Magmatic orange, seething black, crackling violet, frozen teal, and a radiant gold. 

"A fool I may be still, but I will intervene no more. Tarkir will be restored to it's natural state. Whether that state be an endless reign beneath your wings and fangs, or the return of the khans-" 

At his use of the term the dragonlords had barred, the Dragonlords all-save one-opened their maws with cacophony and destruction spilling out. Harsh, swift beams of golden light, crackling lightning, seething venom, and roiling magma converging on the impudent, scaled fool who dared summon the Dragonlords, to insult them by uttering a word they had burned from history. The silent monk steps forward as her verbose companion steps back. Her arms aloft, the right palm held out flat, directly before her, and the left at an angle. The terrible confluence of gleaming elements caught, crashing and diverting along a semicircle as she flowed seamlessly through a series of postures. One of the watching Dragonlords-the fat, and terrible Atarka, incensed beyond all reason to see her flames so simply redirected, barreled out of the dark and towards the two puny humans, intent on hearing their bones crunch between her drooling, wicked teeth and feeling their blood splash on her lolling, bulbous tongue. The ojutai monk swirled fluidly, still leading the combined fury of the dragonlord's along the path of her palm, directing it to meet Atarka just as the dragonlord had been about to flatten them beneath her bulk. The stench and sound as Atarka's body was pulverized, scorched, and blighted was as visceral as the devastating sound that accompanied her being blown backwards in a heap. Though dazed, Atarka instinctively whipped around off her back and took clumsily to the air, roaring her rage between exclamations that she would return and feel the bones of all present snapping between her jaws. The self proclaimed fool stepped forward once more. Briefly gripping his companion's shoulder, and meeting her glowing pale blue gaze with his burning one. 

"You've saved my life once more Narset, thank you." 

She smiles lightly, and wipes some sweat from her brow. "I didn't help write your speech just so you could die with the end on your lips." 

Sarkhan drops his hand off her with a laugh and nods. 

"Those of you dragonlords that remain-I will say this again. Tarkir will thrive, it will grow back it's mouthful of fangs. Whatever the unwritten now becomes, whether it will be shaped by your fangs and wings or by the spells and swords of khans-I, Sarkhan, will allow no interference. Neither from within Tarkir, or without. Not even from I, or my companion, Narset." 

Sarkhan grins, as vigorous red light spills out from between his teeth, from under his fingernails, and out of his eyes, enveloping him. Transforming before the dragonlords into an immense dragon with vivid, gleaming crimson scales, fires flickering into being all around him, casting light beyond the caldera's edges, revealing the momenttarily stunned visages of the remaining dragonlords. Sarkhan's voice, suffused with a heat that causes the air to shimmer between him and those he address booms outwards from his fang filled maw. 

"Kolaghan, Silumgar, Dromoka, and yes, even you Ojutai-if you want to keep your dominance of our Tarkir, prove your claim! Now go! We will be watching." 

The snapping, snarling, and vicious noises that had been steadily building since Vol had named himself as the Sar-khan ceased at his transformation and their exposure. One by one, they flew away, some with more haste then others. Dromoka taking flight first, confident and purposeful, with Kolaghan screeching into the sky next, decisive and swift. Silumgar slithered up and away into the dark after a long, contemplative few moments spent observing the Khan of Khans and Narset. Lastly, Ojutai took to the sky, after sparing a fews words to his former monk. 

"Theatrical...but well done."

Sarkhan, after turning back into a man, stares up at the sight of the dragons, weaving, soaring, and tearing through the air to their respective territories for some time. Turning to regard Narset as she speaks. 

"Do you still think we ought not to hold a similar audience with the would be khans?" 

He frowns thoughtfully. 

"I don't think that we do. The dragonlords have grown complacent with their ascendancy. I can assure you that any who would seek to overthrow them are not." 

"It's likely that our actions tonight will result in at least some of the dragonlords cracking down on their people. Aren't we responsible for that?"

Uncertainty creeps into his voice as he turns back to the horizon.

"We might be. Someone should speak to the would be khans-I don't know that it should be me."

"Who else but the Great Khan should go to provide such a warning?" 

The flicker of mirth in her tone lends a lightness to her words. 

Sarkhan rolls his eyes at the increasingly familiar jibe. 

"Perhaps the one that was once the enlightened master and Khan of the Jeskai is best suited to such a noble endeavor?" 

"I'm not that-"

"-not that woman. I know, and I apologize. This ends with us both going, so let's start on our way."

"I have been wanting to visit the Atarka lands. They are closest." 

Her word are clipped, the displeasure that had seeped into her tone mirrored in his own terse response.

"Hopefully by the time we arrive the dragonlord will have feasted herself into a coma."

"Mhhm. Hopefully. She's not so dumb as to fall for the same trick twice."

"Likely not. I'm sure you'll come up with a new one though."


	2. Whispered Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After weeks of travel alongside Sarkhan, and a great deal of often fruitless imploring for direction from any Atarka clanfolk they came across for guidance, Narset has found herself alone on one of the highest peaks, and most holy peaks of the Qal Sisma mountains. Forced to seek shelter from the three young women she'd been hoping to speak with, she has to share her own truths before they will share theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 8/12/2019: Added some more to the chapter and fixed some stuff up. Also double checked naiva's name and realized i had spelled it wrong.

The tent Narset sat within was stifling in it's heat. A wamrth that was made worse by her scorched, and increasingly soaked garb as the snow that had crusted her from head to toe melted. Coupled with the thick, cloying fragrance of the hot milk tea she'd been served in an chipped horn being in this cosy, hide and fur enclosure tucked inside a recess on a cliff face was still preferable to the howling, harsh blizzard outside. She and Sarkhan had traveled together for weeks, skulking through the Atarka lands in tense silence, following whispers and rumors all the way to this frigid, merciless place known as the Eternal Peak. They had planned to stay together, to meet with the three young women Narset now sat with, but a change in circumstances had demanded they separate. As sweltering as it was in the tent, no matter how much her robes clung, drenched in sweat to her form, or how the admittedly quite delicious, tongue coating tea prickled hotly at her lips she didn't envy Sarkhan his task out there in the screaming blizzard. She hoped at least that he'd return before she had to leave here. Pulled away from her thoughts about her own relative discomfort when one of the women across from her cleared her throat. The wiry, fiery eyed one, Arel was her name, had emitted the slightly irritated, insistent noise. Her impatient tongue and demeanour suggested she was rather more...passionate then Narset would have thought a shaman of the Atarka would have been. Arel had fidgeted impatiently while the other shaman in the tent and her sister had insisted on first preparing and serving tea for Narset, their "guest". Almost immediately after Narset had swallowed her first scalding sip of the salty, sweet beverage Arel had began demanding answers.

"Why are you here monk? You must have something important to say if you would climb up here dogged by Atarka's bloated, stupid broodlings? How is it you even got here alive? We can all smell the foul stench of the fat dragon's flames on you."

The young woman who sat to Narset's left, Naiva, nodded, regarding her with a grim, suspicious look that was sharpened by the gleaming ivory knife she held in one hand. Apparently she was sister to the shaman that sat beside Arel, Baishya.

Baishya, who seemed by far the calmer, more composed of the other two sipped her own tea before speaking. 

"Arel and my sister are understandably wary-no one is supposed to know that the three of us are here."

Narset picks at the front of her tunic, flapping the damp saffron and cerulean cloth away from her torso, parts of which had been blackened and singed by the noxious flames of Atarka broodlings that set upon her and Sarkhan on their ascent to this place.

"I respect how vitally important it is that you maintain secrecy, whisperer, but I know that is not true. I also know that you three were expecting me..."

A sharp snap of wind slapping against the exterior of the tent punctuated the spike in tension in the small, dimly lit space before Baishya responded in an even tone. 

"I have no idea what you mean by any of that-however-had we been expecting anyone, it would have been two people, not one. A monk, one that looks like yourself and of the name you have given. There was supposed to be one other. I do not see them." 

"My companion and I were separated on the last leg of our ascent. We were less then an hour away when Atarka's broodlings fell upon us. An unusually cunning and voracious pair of them. I was of no help in the blizzard, and so continued on foot while he distracted the dragons." 

Arel's expression, which been guarded until now, softens somewhat but only briefly. 

"I'm sorry-but that still doesn't tell us what we need to know."

Baishya nods, touching Naiva's wrist. Her sister had been gripping her knife a bit more tightly these last few moments. 

"If we're to trust you, we'll need more then that."

Narset nods in turn, pursing her lips before she speaks. 

"I understand. Then I will explain as best I can. I'm trying to put together the history of Tarkir. The true history. As whisperers, you both should know that our histories have been meddled with. I came here primarily because I need to learn from you. But also in the hopes that you would spread a warning throughout Tarkir. To earn your trust, first I'll tell you what I know. It's something of a long story."

Baishya smiles a bit, while Arel begrudgingly settles into a more comfortable position to listen. 

"My sister and I enjoy long stories. It's not as though any of us are going anywhere."

By the end of Narset's tale, all four women, save Naiva had assumed more comfortable positions, lounging on the furred floor of the tent. The light from the thick, tallow candle at the center of the tent danced across the stitched leather and hide walls of the tent while Narset's tale swam around them. Narset had shed her sodden, schorched attire and changed into some spare garb offered by Arel at a pause partway through her tale as tea cups had been refilled. She spoke of the woman Sarkhan had told her she once was, of the world he remembered and how actions had saved the Spirit Dragon, and Tarkir. She spoke of the hidden scrolls detailing the time of khans, the time before the dragonlords she had discovered. Of everything she had gleaned about the history that the dragonlords had tried to erase. The monk became so engrossed in her own recollection that after she finished sharing the abbreviated history she had cobbled together she began to drift into other tales from the Tarkir that had never been, and the Tarkir the dragonlords would have everyone forget.

Naiva rubs her brow while her sister speaks, cutting the monk off.

"I know some of what you say to be true...and more then that, I know there are things you didn't share but likely know. Setting that aside, what is it you want us to do with all that you've shared?"

Narset sits up, her movements reflecting the care with which she delivers her words. 

"Only what whisperers have always done for their...for their clan. For the temur. Whisper what must be known far and wide. They need to know their past if they'll ever hope change their present."

Naiva's right hand slips down along her side, grasping the knife at her belt. She shakes off Baishya's hand as her sister goes to forestall her. She's not looking not at Narset, but at the tent flap and the tall, misshapen silhouette standing outside it. The other women take notice and all get to their feet as well. 

"A sibsig?"

Naiva shakes her head to Arel, at the shaman's question.

"I don't think so-we'd have smelled it coming-I think that's got to be-" 

"-it's me, Nai. Could you let me in? I have a guest."

Baishya grins and Naiva purposefully sets her mouth in a stubborn line as she goes to untie and open the flap. A young man, with the bearing and poise of an ojutai monk, if not the appearance of one squeezed by Naiva, pulling a man in with him. 

Naiva pushes Tae Jin lightly past her. Looking at Narset suspiciously as the woman hastened to help Tae Jin put the unconscious, but unharmed man down.

"Get in here then. We've a lot of guests today, it seems like." 

Baishya and Arel also shuffled near, to peer at the unconscious, dark haired man that smelled even more powerfully of dragonfire then Narset.

Narset exhales as she sweeps snow off Sarkhan, having been looking for injuries and finding only minor scrapes and cuts.

"This is the companion I told you about."

Arel looks over him skeptically.

"This is the Great Khan your mother spoke to you of, Baishya? The same man you left to fend off two dragons alone, monk?"

Baishya shrugs and looks at Tae Jin as the man speaks. 

"Well, if what she says is true, he certainly is at least the latter. In anticipation of the blizzard I was starting back here. You can imagine my surprise at a scorched clean, and broken apart skeleton of a dragon, tumbling down the slope toward me. The second one was worse. Then I came upon this man, unconscious, in a pool of melted snow. So I picked him up and brought him here." 

Narset shrugs, looking around the tent at disbelieving faces.

"I can't say I know him that well, but from what I know he is the type to over commit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my second chapter! It's not quite finalized yet perhaps but if you feel like leaving a comment or such, that would be really appreciated! Thanks and I hope you enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's part 1. Please, tell me what you thought? I love Tarkir, and feel like of all the original planes WOTC has made it's got the most room for really compelling developments.


End file.
